Hawkeye
by Danzinora Switch
Summary: Post- Age of Ultron. Fury dispatches Barton to investigate a possible spy on the new Avengers facility. Barton tracks him down all right- and gets a lot more than he bargained for. After all, when you work as an assassin, you tick a lot of people off. It's about time Clint got his own movie.
1. Prologue

**A/N: New fandom. Hey. This is my take on what a Hawkeye movie would look like, in story format, and I'm doing my best to handle it seriously. I own nothing. Review as you feel led. Stay tuned for more!**

* * *

A hiss of escaping air filled the silent room as the lock disengaged. The man turned and looked at him. He kept his gaze facing forward; as hard as the steel door at which he stared.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" the man confirmed. His voice held the tenure of a commander, yet an undertone of gentleness pierced the question.

"It is my right," he replied evenly. He flexed his fists at his side.

"Technically? It isn't. But I understand what you're going through." The man stepped forward and gripped the metal handle. The _click_ from his boot echoed around the hall.

His look finally shifted from the door and focused on the man. "How could you possibly know what I'm going through?" he rumbled steadily.

The man sighed. "I didn't say I know. I just said I understand." With a quick flick of the wrist he tugged hard on the handle. The door of the human-sized drawer swung open, and the man yanked on the tray inside and rolled it out.

His breath fogged in the chilling air.

A sheet covered the body. It seemed so thin. He swallowed hard and raised his hand to touch it. It shook. He clenched it into a fist until it stopped shaking. The man watched silently as he struggled to control himself.

At last, he breathed out and uncurled his fingers. He flipped the sheet off of the body's head, and looked down at the still face.

"He looks so peaceful," he said after a moment. "Like he's just sleeping."

"The doctors say there's hardly a mark on him," the man replied.

He never took his gaze away from the dead man. Reaching out with his other hand, he smoothed a few errant strands of grey hair down on the corpse's scalp. He bit his lip to control himself emotionally- rage, grief, hatred and anger all swirled violently beneath. How could this happen? How could this happen?

"I want a job," he stated flatly. He did not look over his shoulder at the man.

"You're young," was the reply.

"I don't care. I'm a legal adult. I want to work for you."

The man lifted his head, assessing the situation. "I need to be sure you're doing this for the right reasons."

"Trust me, I'm doing this for the only reason worth doing anything."

The man waited a moment. "Revenge?"

He froze, and then barked out a laugh. "You think I have a vendetta, Colonel?" he looked over his right shoulder; the left side of his face remained encased in shadow. "Can't I just honor my father by following in his footsteps?"

The man crossed his arms, looking him over. Their breath swirled between them.

"I'll see you at my office at 0700 tomorrow, sharp."

He grinned, and emitted a half-laugh half-sob. He took his time and swallowed it, putting on a grin. "Thank you, Colonel."

The colonel did not acknowledge that. He stepped over ( _click-clack)_ and pulled the sheet back over the body. "Time to let go, kid."

He watched as the remains were locked back up in the chilly drawer.

The two turned sharply and head back out of the hall. He kept his gaze directed forward. Control, he had to keep things under control…

"Oh by the way," he started casually. "Since a man just doesn't drop dead, there must be _one_ mark on him."

"That's true," the colonel replied gravely. He too, looked forward, but for different reasons. He did not want to follow this line of thought, yet knew it would be vastly unfair to keep silent.

"What did they find? That was buried in his chest." They reached the exit and he stopped before the door, blocking the man into an answer.

The colonel sighed and looked down as he shifted his strong stance. His eyes flicked back up to his.

"An arrowhead."


	2. Part One

**A/N: Alright, now something a little more substantial. Oh, and please tell me I'm not the only one who was ecstatic to find out [Spoiler] that Hawkeye was married WITH KIDS in the new movie and like he and Black Widow better as friends. (Also, I went with popular vote on the names of Clint's older children, though if anyone can actually confirm this, please let me know). I adore his family farm life.**

 **Without further ado:**

* * *

Laura looked around the mess. Technically 'organized chaos' would have been more accurate, as her sharp eyes could pick out the method in the madness.

But it was still a mess.

"I told you you'd find another project," she murmured to the figure in the middle of the mess.

"Yes, you did. And you were right." Her husband scooted out from the wall with a fistful of electrical wires. He stood and dusted himself off, stifling a cough.

Laura looked around the ruins of the dining room. The construction was mostly confined to the area, but was starting to creep into other parts of the house. "Should I put up construction tape?"

Clint laughed. "Not yet. It should be downhill from here- finally finished clearing out that east wall. Now it's time to put everything back together."

"Cooper's really excited to help you," she mentioned.

He picked his away around the rubble towards her. "He can hop right in, now. I've pulled out the last of the frayed wires in that wall." He pointed to the now-empty space.

"Mm-hm," she stroked his arm. "You really didn't have to do this."

He caught her chin and looked at her. "Yes I did," he told her softly. "You deserve your own space, Laura."

She lifted an eyebrow at him. "For work," she said cheekily. Even though her classes were online she still had many printed forms and materials for which to teach them. Dictionaries, thesauruses, and foreign language books were piled up all throughout the house.

"For work, for painting- it's an office and a hobby room." As he spoke his arm slid down around her waist and they leaned against each other.

"Right now it's a destructive site," she commented after a moment.

"Yeah," he replied sheepishly. "That too."

Their peaceful moment was interrupted by a high-pitched cry coming from the other end of the house. Laura turned to move, but Clint stopped her and squeezed her shoulder. "I got it."

He walked upstairs to Nathaniel's room and quickly strode to the crib. "Hey, there," he said, lovingly picking the infant up. "What's got you so upset?" He bounced the baby gently as he rubbed his back. Nathaniel calmed down, but still emitted some demanding sounds.

As a triple-parent veteran, Clint knew the baby-speak for hunger.

"Okay, big boy, let's get you to the kitchen."

He checked on Lila and Cooper as he passed the living room heading for the fridge. Toy cars and tracks were strewn all over the floor. He almost told them to pick up what they weren't playing with- but then remembered his own mess in the dining room.

Okay, it can slide this time.

His phone started ringing as he settled Nathaniel into his high chair. "Just a sec," he instructed to no one in particular as he strapped his son in. Secure, he pulled out the incessantly ringing phone and answered it.

"Barton here." He opened the fridge door and balanced the cell on his shoulder as he started pulling out baby food.

"Good to hear from you," said an unmistakable voice. Clint was mildly surprised. The only people who had this number were SHIELD (or what was left of them), Laura, and Natasha. Natasha never called him. Laura was elsewhere in the house. But normally when SHIELD called it was some techie and _not_ Nick Fury himself.

"How's the home life going?" Fury continued.

"Good, good." He switched ears as worked to get the baby food open. "Kids are growing up fast." At last the lid came off. He sat down in a chair across from Nathaniel and dipped the plastic spoon in. "But you don't really call to ask how things are going."

"No. It's true I don't. But I did stay over for two nights and it would have been rude not to check in on that hospitality. Laura and the baby well?"

"Laura's fine. Baby's fine." He scooped some mess dribbling down Nathaniel's chin up with the spoon.

"Good. Now to my news."

"What do you need?" He may be feeding a baby but he knew an agent call-in when he heard it.

"Just somebody to pursue a possible security threat. You'll get your details when you're debriefed at the Avengers Training Facility. I expect to see you there at 0900 tomorrow morning."

"Yes sir," he answered.

When the line clicked off he turned and noticed Laura standing at the entrance to the kitchen. She leaned against the door, a sad smile on her lips.

"Laura, I've-"

"I know," she answered softly. She walked over and leaned over his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his front. "Just promise me you'll finish the dining room when you come back."

"You know I will," he murmured back. He craned his head around to kiss her.

Nathaniel made an impatient noise, and the parents turned back to put another spoonful of baby food in his open mouth.

* * *

The jet landed smoothly on the tarmac and Barton was walking out before the engines were even winding down. He squinted in the sun and put on his shades to cut the glare. The improvement in visibility revealed an old friend walking towards him.

"You're back early," Natasha Romanoff said bluntly, falling into step beside him.

"It's been a few months," he pointed out.

"It has," she conceded. "And you haven't missed much."

"I'm sure things have been very exciting around here."

"It depends on your definition of exciting." She opened the door, and in the act faced him. "We haven't been fighting robots, but we have had a few interesting… close calls."

That was vague. Barton frowned, but her expression was unreadable.

"So what does bring you by?" she mentioned casually as they walked down the wide hallway.

"I'm not sure yet. Fury called and said they needed me."

It was Natasha's turn to frown.

"What?" he pressed. "You know something about this?"

"I know we've been of some particular interest to some satellites," she admitted. "But I haven't heard anything about acting on it."

Barton shrugged. "Well, everyone's pretty busy." The distant shouts echoed louder around them as they passed by a large indoor gym. They paused on the balcony, looking down below as people scurried through obstacle courses presided over by Captain America.

"There are more of them," Hawkeye realized. "I thought it was just four-"

"We've been getting more," Natasha explained evenly. "A few here and there trickle in. We screen them, of course. More than one is enhanced."

"Do you find that odd?"

She contemplated, rolling her shoulders. "Cap says that out of the 7 billion people on the Earth, it's not surprising that other groups out there would be experimenting," she said at last. She shrugged. "His argument makes sense."

Barton continued to watch the rookies train. "Getting to be a big family," he muttered.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" Natasha teased.

He tried to fight the grin.

"Agent Barton." They turned to see Maria Hill standing a short distance away. "Director Fury is ready for you."

* * *

The file landed on the desk, fanning out aerial photographs in a graceful spill. Barton picked up the first one and studied it, realizing it was a bird's-eye-view of the new Avengers facility.

"Despite our security measures," Fury began, walking around the table. "Somebody's eyeballing us. Now, we don't mind the occasional hacker kid using Google Earth to nose around, but this has been a consistent stream of satellite surveillance focused on _us_."

"Is it just one satellite?" he asked, flipping through the photos.

"So far we've counted five. Three were GPS working to break around our cyber-blocking methods, and two were governmental satellites which are supposed to be observing Russia."

"You think somebody hacked them?"

"The signals for these satellites to take these photos are all traced back to the same source." Fury picked up a particular photograph of a different location and set it on top.

"This is the Houser building in New York; it's a technical base for several different companies and works as a ritzy place for dinners, fundraisers, etc. on the first couple of floors. Because of its versatility, we don't know exactly _who_ is manipulating those satellites. There are too many groups involved."

"So you want me to find out who's responsible," Barton confirmed.

"Not only that, but also if they're a threat." Fury sat down and folded his hands in front of him. "I would love for this to just be a curious technician fooling around at work on a slow day. But because of what we are and who we have here, we need to make sure nobody's spying has ulterior motives."

He nodded. "So I'm undercover for this one?"

Fury handed him a wallet with a driver's license, credit card, and business card inside. "You'll be known as Aaron Walker, a manager of satellite security for Stark Enterprises." He chuckled at the face Barton made. "I know, but it's easier to lie when the lie is closer to truth. At least this way you're already somewhat familiar with your 'job'."

"Or at least the industry," Barton muttered.

"There's a black-tie dinner starting at 1900 tonight," Fury continued. "Your invitation's in the wallet. It will provide you the opportunity to snoop around in the building. You need to figure out who's responsible for this, and if they're a threat. Do not engage if they are. We'll figure out how to handle anyone unsavory after you get back."

They both rose. "Any backup?" Barton clarified.

Fury shook his head. "Afraid not. We're terribly short-handed. The captain and Romanoff are still training our recruits. Thor's gone back up to Asgard. Banner's still who-knows-where and Stark does have a business to run."

"Alright." Barton collected the materials for Aaron Walker.

"We have a hotel room waiting for you with your bulkier supplies already inside. Set up what you need to, and then don't contact us until you're done."

He gave a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

It was, after all, what he was trained to do.


	3. Part Two

**A/N: Thank you for all those lovely reviews! Please, invite your friends :) This is... certainly longer. Just the way my brain works I guess. I envision most of this as movie scenes, so writing it in story format becomes a bit more confusing. Well. Enjoy this!**

* * *

The New York City skyline stretched across before him. A helicopter landing and taxi ride later he was looking out over it from a different angle. The Avengers tower was just barely visible off in the distance. He exhaled. It was time to get to work.

His suit was laid out on the bed of the hotel room. He really didn't like suits, but it was necessary. Wordlessly he put it on, struggling with the bow tie for a moment in front of the mirror.

With the suit on, he worked with accessories. There was knife sheathed in a plastic cover impenetrable to scans that went under his left pant leg. He had a row of darts up one of his sleeves disguised as suit alterations. They had blunt caps on them so that he wouldn't accidentally inject himself with mild poisons. A tiny camera was situated in his lapel. A few stun charges and a couple of smoke screens went into his jacket pockets; Barton was thankful that the lining of the jacket could also cover scans. He had a few more mini-cameras and bugs up his other sleeve in case he needed to plant eyes and ears in areas he couldn't fully access. A SHIELD hacking flash drive slid into his pocket. Last but not least, he situated more clips of darts on his other leg.

A gun would be too bulky and noticeable. Same with his arrows. Oh, well.

Now for the tricky part. He stepped back in front of the mirror, and struggled with the bowtie again.

* * *

"You're all clear," the security officer declared.

Inwardly, Barton smirked; as if a wand could ever uncover all his gear. Outwardly, he nodded his thanks and continued on into the Houser building, holding his invitation He picked up a brochure of the building as he walked through the doors.

It seemed pretty stereotypical so far. The carpeting was too plush, and the red and gold color scheme crowded the floor, walls, and ceiling. It was only saved by the low, warm lighting. The hallway opened up onto a wide balcony area with clothed dinner tables and hors d'oeuvres tables stretched against either wall. Two staircases led down to the floor beneath, which, as he viewed over the railing, was where most of the tables were, as well as the stage and podium for the guest speaker of the dinner/fundraiser tonight.

Well, he was in. First objective: figure out who may have access to those satellites. Even if he found the computer from which the hacking was done, it wouldn't tell him _who_ was behind it.

Dozens of companies used this building: Microsoft, Stark Enterprises, Pym Industries, Cross Technological Enterprises, Howard & Stafford Inc., the First Foundation Corporation, etc. The list just went on.

He swept nonchalantly towards the hors d'oeuvres, listening in closely to the surrounding conversations as he gathered a cocktail.

"…and then _I_ heard that the program was being scrapped, which really sent everyone in a tizzy…"

"…but then Harold decided 'oh, why the hell not?'…"

"…I wouldn't care for another cruise, but the employee discount…"

"…well, of course Cross saw, he sees everything!"

Barton turned slightly at that. This conversation sounded worth pursuing. He inched closer to the two men who were already well into their cocktails.

"But it was so unfair," the other complained. "Can't a guy live a little? I was sober the next morning."

The first man shook his head. "It's still bad publicity for the company. I saw the footage. You were pretty drunk."

"How'd he get that footage anyway, I thought he was locked up in his lab all night."

The first man just stared at him. "You really don't get the point of being here, do you?"

Barton moved away as the conversation deteriorated alongside sobriety. He sipped his own cocktail, moving over to an easel advertising the night's fundraiser. His eyes skimmed down and locked on the guest speaker.

William Cross: The New Age of Observation and Camera Security

Why had no one told him this earlier?

A hand clamped on his shoulder.

He whirled sharply around, ready for a possible confrontation. His eyes widened. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"Yeah, happy to see you too, Barton," Stark said, slightly miffed at his greeting.

"Don't call me that," he instructed stiffly. Stark's arm stayed slung around his shoulders and they started walking.

"Why not? Are you on some kind of undercover mission I don't know about?" He leaned in and suddenly felt the bulges in Barton's jacket. "Geez, are you trying to put Fort Knox out of a job?"

"Can it, Stark," Barton stopped him.

"Well, what's your name, I need to call you something, have you got a fancy credit card and background all figured like- thanks," he broke off as Barton handed him his business card. "Hey, you work for me!"

"Don't remind me."

"This is great, because now me talking to you is just helping you maintain your cover. My publicity is great for your job." They started walking down the stairs to the main floor.

"What are you doing here, Stark?" Barton grated exasperatedly.

"Head of Stark Industries which is a big, _big_ tech company, in case you forgot, my dear employee. This is a dinner on advances in technology. You put two and two together."

"Right, great." They stepped off the stairs and wound their way deeper into the tables and patrons in the red and gold room. "Hey Stark, what do you know about the speaker here, William Cross?"

"That who you're investigating?" Stark popped an olive in his mouth.

"I'm not at liberty to say. And for goodness sake, don't take that as a 'yes'," he hissed.

Stark held up his hands in a mock surrender. "Don't go all ninja on me."

Barton rolled his eyes.

"But William Cross. Yeah, I know a few things about him. Runs Cross Technological Enterprises, ex-CIA; he's making a pretty good business in security measures. Word on the street is that he thinks like a crook, you know, kinda gets inside one's mind, figures out how to break into a place, and then installs measures to prevent that method from happening. So far it's been _very_ effective. And successful."

Barton nodded silently. Ex-CIA? Might explain how those government satellites got hacked. This Cross character was looking more and more likely every minute.

Someone thumped him in the shoulder. He looked at Stark, slightly annoyed. "This is how you work?" the man exclaimed. "You're far too uptight for this; I think your cocktail's defective."

"You're not exactly helping, here."

"No, but I bet _she_ can."

Barton turned to see where Stark was looking. "Oh."

 _She_ was in a full-length, form-fitting red evening gown that showed enough cleavage to be tempting, but not disgusting. She was slim, but supple, and a high slit in the dress revealed her smooth, bronze legs. Her golden hair was curled slightly around her shoulders, and bounced in time with her graceful gait. She had golden bangles tastefully decorating her left arm, and a beautiful golden necklace.

"Dang," Barton said. _She matches the carpet_.

"I know, right?" Stark breathed. "There's a drop-dead gorgeous lady."

Barton blinked. "What? Oh, yeah."

Stark shook his head. "I hope I don't turn blind to women when I'm married."

"Where's Pepper?" Barton tried to change the subject.

"Here. Around. Socializing." Stark shrugged. "Like _you_ should be socializing with Miss Blond Bombshell over there."

"Stark, you know I'm-," he reminded him pointedly.

"Clint Barton is. But, ah, Aaron Walker is still single." Stark held out his arms in a mock apology. _What are you going to do?_ "Besides, if I seem to recall, she also works under your person of interest."

Well.

"Thanks for the lead," he murmured, stepping away.

"Anytime," Stark patted his shoulder. "Good luck, James Bond!"

Barton gave him a dirty look.

He was unwilling to approach this target so directly, so he established himself at the cocktail bar, casually observing the room. He had yet to see Cross himself, come to think of it.

The blond got up from her conversation and walked by. Barton drifted closer as she selected hors d'oeuvres on her plate. Someone brushed by him, and he used the bump to spill his cocktail onto her plate.

"Oh!"

"Oh my goodness! I'm just so, so sorry, I, geez," he grabbed a couple of napkins and quickly dabbed them on the table cloth and handed some more to her. "I apologize, I'm a real klutz, I didn't get any on you, did I?"

"No, no, I think we're lucky," she answered, checking over her dress thoroughly. She dabbed here and there with her wad of napkins. "Besides, with this dress I don't think we'd notice any stains- well, not red ones at least." She flipped her hair back as she looked up and smiled at him.

He let out a perfect nervous chuckle. "Yeah, fortunately. I mean, it's a great color on you."

"Thanks," she grinned. She moved the napkins to her left hand, extending her right. "I'm Wendy Conrad."

"Aaron Walker," he replied, shaking it. Her grip was strong and succinct- like a businesswoman. "I'm glad you're alright- I really don't want to be the cause of a fiasco at an event like this."

"Oh, I totally understand. It's like the convention of the bosses," she agreed.

"I know, I feel like everyone's just waiting for something to happen and then," he clicked his tongue and made a slashing motion across his throat.

She laughed. "Yep. That's definitely the vibe here."

Somebody brushed by them, trying to get to the table. They stepped aside and started walking through the room.

"So what company are you with?" Wendy asked. "I haven't seen you before."

"I'm normally anywhere else; social conventions are really my scene." He made a face. "Stark Enterprises. I'm the manager for his satellite security codes."

"Ooh, I bet that's fun." She came across as mildly flirtatious, and yet still confident and composed.

"That's the jinx. Anytime something 'fun' happens it means something's about to implode. I like it _nice_ and boring." They sat down at a table a server poured them some water.

"That's funny," she swallowed her drink. "You don't strike me as a boring guy."

"Well, free time's one thing; job security's another," he shrugged. "It's cutthroat out there."

"Mm, don't tell me twice. I was practically floundering before I caught a break and landed in Mr. Cross's company. Now, I'm basically second-in-command."

He nodded approvingly. "Pretty cushy."

She smiled without showing her teeth. "I stay busy, though. A lot of people around here just think I'm somebody's trophy wife." As she spoke she crossed her legs, letting the slip fall open to reveal them further. She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "It's unbearably degrading."

"I learned long ago to never judge a book by its cover," he replied honestly.

She continued looking at him. "Good."

* * *

The screen flickered in front of him. On it, the guests milled around on the floor, settling into their chairs as the dinner time drew close. He watched it shrewdly, keeping his arms crossed.

"Keep it like that," he instructed. "But get closer if you have to."

Someone else rapped on the door. "Sir? You're on in ten minutes."

He signaled that he heard. His eyes flicked back to the screens. "I don't want any alerts during this event," he told the guard.

"Understood, sir," he replied.

"Let them roam."

* * *

"You like working for Cross?" Barton kept the conversation on the track he wanted.

"I do. He's a good man. He's had to overcome some tough struggles in life, but he made them pay off." Wendy swirled her water. "He's an inspiration."

"I understand," he nodded.

"I'll say!" She sat up. "You're working under Tony Stark! The Iron Man. He seems pretty entertaining enough- I can't imagine you'd have to worry about anything under him."

"Oh, he's great to be around," Barton was not quite lying through his teeth. "It's not Stark I'm worried about messing up in front of- it's his girlfriend, Pepper Potts!"

"Ah," she corrected herself. "Okay; I'm sorry, I don't know that much about her."

"That's fine, most of the limelight is on Stark, anyway." He sipped his own water. "As it happens in big corporations. But for all the CEO's in here with their own publicity entourages, I admit, I really don't know much about your own boss."

Wendy looked him up and down slyly. "Well, he's speaking tonight. Perhaps you'll get to know him a little better, then."

"Perhaps I will."

"Ladies and Gentlemen," reverberated a voice from the podium. They turned to see who was speaking as waiters quietly served the appetizing dish. "Thank you for coming here tonight. We are so honored to have so many esteemed people come here interested in learning more about our fundraiser! Or at least, in getting some good food tonight." The speaker grinned as some chuckles rippled through the audience.

Barton glanced around and noticed pretty much everyone was seated, save for the staff. With everyone in a controlled location, it would be a good time to examine the building.

"Excuse me," he apologized softly to Wendy. "I'm going to go now so that I can hopefully make it back in time for Mr. Cross's speech."

"I gotcha," Wendy winked at his euphemism.

Barton grinned and ducked away from the table. The lights had been dimmed so that everyone would focus on the stage, and it just got darker the closer he made it to the walls. Weaving through the staff along the sidelines, he backed out of the dinner room and slipped into an elevator.

The upper floors held computer offices and technical laboratories. If the satellite signals came from a floor that belonged to Cross Technological Enterprises, it would confirm that he was at least on the right track. He needed to be quick. He did have every intention of hearing what Cross had to say.

Inside, he quickly glanced over the ceiling. No cameras. Fortuitous.

He unfolded the brochure and fanned through it, looking for the floors CTE owned. Just one? Not that big of a company, he supposed. No wonder they were holding a fundraiser.

He punched in the button for the 20th floor. As it started moving up, he mentally prepared himself for a possible security confrontation. He didn't know what he'd find.

The doors opened and he moved to step out, but stopped. The lettering on the far wall said Pym Industries. This wasn't right.

Frowning, he looked back down at the brochure. Something was off somewhere…

"You lost, buddy?"

He looked up to see an old man leaning on a janitor's broom. A rag hung out of his back pocket and he wore thick glasses over his eyes.

"A bit," he replied, sliding back into Aaron Walker. "I'm trying to reach the 20th floor, but I don't think-"

"Oh, you're using one of those fancy brochures, aren't you?" the man replied. "They took out Floor 13- superstition and all that junk. Sheer poppycock if you ask me."

"I see."

"The brochure numbers the floors 11, 12, 14, 15. Here, see?" he shuffled over and pointed it out. "But the elevator buttons still have 13. You're actually on the 21st floor, according to the brochure, anyway. Go down one more."

"Okay, thanks," he said warmly to man.

The old man shrugged. "You're welcome. I get lost people all the time, but I know this building like the back of my hand."

"Much appreciated," Barton nodded and stepped back into the elevator.

As the doors shut, the old man looked around. "Where was I headed again?"

* * *

The next time the doors opened, Barton was pleased to note that he was on the correct floor. He moved quickly to the first available computer in the office and turned it on.

Keeping an eye out for any security cameras, he pulled out SHIELD's flash drive and plugged it into the computer. It could bypass passwords and dig in straight to the network all the operating systems shared. Sifting through the codes, he searched for the particular satellite overrides that had been identified.

The use of those codes showed up on three different computers, but they _were_ all on this floor. It was somebody in CTE. Cross himself? Or a lackey?

Barton glanced at his watch. The speaker should nearly be finished introducing Cross. He had to get back.

He planted a bug in the middle of the office. He stuck it under the desk, it's outer shell instantly adhering to the surface, for the moment, but planned to activate and move it to a different part of the floor the moment he got back to the hotel. What remained of SHIELD technology allowed for listening devices/cameras to actually look and move like bugs, thus evading detection longer.

He reached the elevator again without any problems, and frowned as he rode back down. For a company specializing in security, he hadn't seen any cameras on the floor.

Barton's internal red alert quietly started ringing.

* * *

When he returned to the dining room he noticed two things: Cross was just walking up to the podium, and someone had stolen his seat.

He quickly sat down at another table, splitting his focus between Cross and Wendy. She was talking quietly to the man who'd taken his spot- God, please don't let it be Stark- and seemed very focused on doing so. As second-highest in the company, and with the only person higher than her on stage, it likely was someone with business questions. But Barton knew better than to just automatically assume so.

Cross handled the usual amenities with the splendid air of any dignitary. Barton focused on the man himself. He was younger than he expected- maybe ten years under himself. He didn't seem to have any particularly distinguishes marks, but…

His glasses were curiously reflective.

At first Barton thought it was a glare from the lights, but the more he watched the more he realized that he truly couldn't see past them. That was interesting.

"Now, Cross Technological Enterprises isn't introducing anything new to the realm of security," Cross chuckled. "In fact, this system is more of an efficient, ergonomic integration. What if you could securely access and check on your firewall systems for everything from door codes to your software programming? All without leaving your desk."

A screen behind him lit up and started a virtual walkthrough of the idea. "This allows for smoother communication between your security networks, as it lets them actually _talk_ with each other. If one system is compromised, the other systems step in and back it up, making that system- be it a lock or program- triply secure. And the access to them is easier- I don't have to tell most of you here about getting work on vacation."

A chuckle tittered through the crowd.

Cross went on to explain the integration's own security measures, so that no one would be able to hack the program that linked all the others. Barton recorded all of it, growing more and more certain that Cross and his company was the source.

But were they a threat?

"So with your generous donations," Cross went on, starting his conclusion. "And the newfound abilities of cybernetics, I implore you: invest in this program. This is a new age for all of us, and we need to keep up with the demand. Let us start the work for security integration. Let us back up our systems with a force of all security measures. Let us check in on our office from our phone, our satellites from our desk, our cameras from the road-"

Barton narrowed his eyes.

"And most importantly: let us protect our people from criminals and hackers. Thank you for your support." Cross stepped down as the crowd clapped obligingly, standing up. Barton rose with them, and clapped coldly. As the crowd settled down, people started milling around, walking up to pay their donations, or questioning and speaking with each other. He looked to see if Wendy was nearby, but didn't see her.

He needed to learn more about Cross. The guy's story just wasn't adding up.

He spotted the keynote speaker leaving the room from a side door. Barton moved to follow.

An arm found its way back over his shoulders. "So, what do you think, my dear employee, should I invest in this or not?"

"Damn it, Stark," Barton growled.

"What? Did I interrupt your secret spy moves?" he asked innocently.

"I don't have time for this," he muttered darkly.

"Me neither. So how 'bout you give me a quick answer: yes or no?"

Barton shrugged him off. "He already has the ability to do all that."

Stark raised his eyebrows and looked back at the empty podium. "Well, now. That's interesting."

When the billionaire turned back to his companion, Barton was gone.

* * *

According to the brochure, that hall Cross took went straight to the parking deck, but there were a few staff rooms on either side. He walked quickly, straight to the deck, but when he reached the lot it was deserted. He frowned. Either Cross had taken off immediately, or he hadn't reached the parking deck yet.

Which meant he was now behind him…

Barton ducked behind some cars just as the door opened. He kept his head down, but recognized Cross's voice. Judging by the footsteps, there were 3 or 4 others.

"I think we're going to have a pretty good turnout after that. Those kinds of crowds are dying to do something progressive with their money," Cross was saying. The group passed him and Barton kept pace, staying low behind the cars. They rounded a corner and a vehicle chirped as it unlocked.

There was a low voice. "Why thank you, Dan," Cross replied.

Barton pressed his head to the pavement and looked under the car he was hiding behind. A collection of boots were gathered in front of a black Cadillac. There was one pair of fine black shoes that he deduced belonged to Cross. Gradually, they piled into the car. The headlights flicked on as the engine started. Barton creeped around the car as the Cadillac pulled out. Quickly, he palmed another bug. With a flick of his wrist the bug shot and stuck onto the back of the Cadillac. Barton inwardly grinned. Fantastic.

He turned around as he stood up and came face-to-face with a security guard.

"Whoa. Hi." He quickly smoothed down the front of his suit. "Do you see cuff link I dropped anywhere?"

The guard's eyes flicked down for a second but it was enough time for Barton to launch a dart at his neck. The guard blinked and wobbled, looking confused at him.

"Don't worry, pal," Barton patted his shoulder. "You're gonna feel really sick later, so enjoy this disorientation while you can."

The guard just wobbled and dribbled. "Papa?"

* * *

Barton was halfway back through the hallway when a door slammed open. He whirled, expecting a fight. His shoulders relaxed when he realized it was Wendy.

"Did I startle you?" she said with a smile, leaning back against the open door.

"Yeah," he panted. "Yeah, a little."

She shrugged slowly with one shoulder, and looked at him from under her lashes.

"So, uh," Barton coughed.

He was unprepared for to suddenly surge and kiss him, driving them through another door.

He grunted as his back collided against a table. What was this, a staff break room? Seemed like it.

Wendy pulled away. "I've learned to be very direct in my dealings as a businesswoman," she said sweetly. "And that tends to crawl into more…" she walked her fingers up his chest. "Personal matters."

She moved in to kiss him again, but he gripped her wrists. "Wendy…"

"Mm?" She smoothly twisted her arms away and pressed up closer against him. "You got some kind of kink you want to tell me about?"

"What? No, I-" This was ridiculous. Barton pushed her away and straightened his suit.

"What's the matter?" she purred. "You one of those asexuals or something?"

"Nothing quite so complicated," he responded curtly.

"So then there's no reason this can't happen," she said as she cupped her hand around his neck again.

"No, I- mpf!" he pushed her back some more as she kissed him.

"And I don't see a ring, so you're not married," she continued, peppering him with kisses.

Barton winced. "It's- it's time. I have to meet Stark right after-"

"I saw Stark and his girlfriend leave already," she breathed, curling around his neck.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Damn him."

Wendy giggled. "Ooh, I like it when we talk dirty about our bosses."

"Oh yeah? What have you got to say?" He _was_ still on a mission. _Take one for the team, Barton._

"Mmm, how about how he's bitter all the time, even when he's nice?" she said. She paused in her ministrations to run her fingers along his waistband. Annoyed, he redirected her attentions elsewhere.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the man has an inner darkness that is so," she flipped her golden hair past him as she thought of the word. " _Attractive_."

"Huh." Barton squirmed as her fingers got too close to some of his gear. He couldn't let her find that. "I wonder where he gets it from."

"The same place everyone gets it," she whispered. " _His past._ "

Barton nodded grimly, and roughly grabbed her shoulders, holding her out away from him.

She lifted a perfect eyebrow seductively. "Now we're talking."

She gasped when he shoved her away. "I mean it, Wendy," he said sternly.

"Well," she panted. "This is certainly different."

"Yeah, it is," he muttered as he walked to the door. He looked back at her as he opened it. "You're dynamite, but just not my type. Sorry." He shrugged his shoulders and closed the door as he left.

Wendy looked down at her red dress, golden locks, and perfect curves. "Damn."

* * *

 **Fidelity, ftw! Also, if you recognize any names, please, no spoilers in the comments.**


	4. Part Three

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long- my work schedule has been a tad crazy. And now for the next installment!**

* * *

It was dark in Barton's hotel room, but he had a few final tasks to accomplish before he turned in for the night. Opening a laptop, he quickly plugged the SHIELD flash drive back in, and pulled up his video feeds for the bugs. He checked on the one on the CTE floor of the Houser building and, satisfied it was undetected for a little longer, quickly accessed the one on Cross's car. He lined up the bug's feed with satellite imaging, and quickly locked on its location. He smiled. A bona fide tracking device.

As the blip continued to move, he manipulated the bug under the desk. It crawled down to the floor, and quickly scuttled around the cubicles and computers. Studying the camera feed, he kept a close eye out for some kind of important-looking office. No, it wouldn't be Cross's office- not in a small branch of the business like the Houser building.

Just finding row after row of work stations, he settled for a compromise and tucked the bug up in a lamp on the ceiling. Poised perfectly in the middle of the largest group of computers, it could see, hear, and record most of the action.

Now back to his other friend. The blip had stopped moving. Barton tapped a few more commands on the keyboard, zooming in the image on the precise location.

Cross had stopped at his main building.

Cross Technological Enterprises.

The new building in his sights.

* * *

This hotel was certainly shittier than the last one. Barton accepted that fact. He wasn't trying to play a ritzy businessman any longer. And if there was one thing his room did offer that was better than the last, it was a perfect view of CTE.

He had the laptop, with all its camera info, out on the bed. His gear was laid out next to it- gloves with spiked grip, his suit, his boots, his bow, a case of assorted arrowheads- anyone walking in might think he was planning a bank heist.

For this part of the operation, Barton was glad that the modus operandi had changed. Sneaking around as a wolf in sheep's clothing was more Natasha's style. Sneaking around without being seen was his area of expertise.

It was his third day of staking out the building. Cross's car had so far gone to and from it like any other working CEO. On the second he'd made the bug hop out and follow Cross inside. It'd been scittering down the hallway when all of a sudden the link died. Either someone had accidentally stepped on it, or it was purposefully destroyed.

Either way, it could no longer tell him what he needed to know: what was Cross hiding?

If he already had the technology to 'integrate security systems' and run various programs from a cell phone, why was he pitching a fundraiser to start developing that same technology? In Barton's experience, that meant he was using the funds to pay for something else, and he intended to find out what.

So with his inside bug dead, and the one in the Houser building not doing anything useful, he prepared for a human incursion.

* * *

The wind blew a bit more sharply in his face as he climbed. He didn't let that bother him. The hotel had a nice spire and he needed to use it. So the wind got stronger. Big deal. He'd been in worse.

The spire ended in a bulbous point, though. It would be tricky, but doable. He climbed up past the bulge and gripped the spire with his legs and feet- the ball-point providing a few more square inches of footing. His quiver rotated, and he slide the carefully-selected arrow into place and drew back the string.

It was very dark. He could see the target, of course, he wasn't called 'Hawkeye' for nothing- but the scope on his bow let him double-check his aim with night vision.

He let it fly.

It soared across the street, perfectly on target. He'd angled it towards the wind so it wouldn't be knocked away. He'd also angled it upwards so that the cable trailing behind it wouldn't it drag it down below the mark.

Bulls-eye.

Holding the other end, he wound it around the spire just above the bulge and anchored it. Losing his footing in the process, he swiftly brought his arms up and crossed his bow over the makeshift zip-line. In half a second he was sliding swiftly down towards the roof of the CTE building.

It was a tall building; it was why he'd needed to climb so high up from his own roof. Zip-lines tended to work better when angled downwards instead of straight across.

He dropped from the line and rolled, smoothly coming to his feet holding his bow at the ready. So far, no one. He cut the line and, keeping a sharp eye out, walked to the large exhaust vent of the building. He braced his hands on the top of the structure and launched himself inside feet first. Barton arched his back to hit the curve more smoothly, and then it was a short, thrilling free-fall.

He had his bow at the ready. His feet skimmed the sides of the vent to somewhat slow him. Barton stared down at the churning fan below him. Pull back- fire.

The first arrow took out the power supply to the fan. The second jammed its rotation, almost instantly stopping it. Not a breath later and he slid between the blades.

Past the obstacle, he unfolded his legs and back, stopping his descent and wedging him in the vent. With his hands below him, he carefully guided himself down.

He found the first vent when his left fingertips brushed against air. He shifted around the circular spire so he was directly above the sideways opening. Bracing his arms on either side, he wiggled down another foot and pushed hard with his legs, shooting himself down the vent.

He was in.

Barton strapped the bow around his quiver and quickly crawled through the now horizontal vents. The man was certainly no stranger to this. In almost all buildings, whatever the layout, the basic air conditioning systems remained the same. Methodically, he worked his way down the floors, spying on the rooms he passed. Most were empty, since the average worker didn't have midnight shifts, but every now and then a room or hallway would sport a janitor or frazzled coffee addict deep in that midnight shift.

He went in deeper.

Cross wouldn't be dumb enough to hide anything on upper floors where a hapless worker could stumble across it. It was an arduous task- crawling down from the top of a building through vents and elevator shafts- but Barton managed to not only do so, but do so quietly.

As he crawled through, he paused. Voices. He held himself completely still, aware he was over a first floor hallway.

The voice he recognized was Cross's. He spoke with another man, whose words he couldn't quite make out, but who wore very loud shoes. Their _click-clack_ echoed behind the duo even long after they had gone.

Above and behind, Barton followed them.

Cross and Click-Clack entered an elevator, pushing _down_. This was what Barton wanted to see. They were on the first floor and descending? Finally.

He found a vent leading into that elevator shaft and carefully crawled down the cables, thankful that he was wearing gloves. The elevator had stopped moving, and he slid onto the roof of the glorified box.

He pressed an ear to it, listening and feeling. There was a slight vibration as the doors opened, and another as they closed. When the elevator stayed still, it was safe to infer that it was empty.

Barton popped the emergency hatch on top and dropped inside. He pushed the button to open the doors and whipped to the side; bow ready.

The hallway was empty.

Tense and alert, he cautiously started walking forward. He looked for any vents, but they were too small for him to fit. Heck, not even his bow could fit through one of them. Oddly, there didn't seem to be any cameras. Barton couldn't tell if this was so no one could hack them and see what was down here, or if it was part of some larger purpose. He peeked through the first door and was relieved to see a stairwell. Good. He would hate for the only exit to have been by elevator.

A harsh click froze him, and he looked for anybody around. No one. He frowned, and realized it was that blasted boot Click-Clack was wearing. Carefully, he followed the noise.

There were voices coming from a door up ahead. They sounded civil, but Barton had been in enough dangerous conversations to know when someone was filled with icy hate. From the sound of it, it was just about to escalate.

He took another step forward.

The door to his left flew open and he fired his arrow as he lurched backwards, narrowly taking himself out of the way from a flurry of bullets. Since he was still tilting backwards, he rolled with it and came out of a backwards flip with three more arrows notched and ready. They all found their marks in the assailants' necks.

There were more shouts from behind and some more pseudo-SWAT guys (well, they were rocking the whole black-clad and armed thing) poured in, firing.

Hawkeye didn't exactly like being trapped from both ends in a tiny hallway.

Instead of leaping up to dodge the bullets he spun _down_. The fewer assailants (that were left, at least) from the first door were caught in the crossfire, and despite the body armor went down screaming. Okay, so these shooters were aiming to kill. Nice headshots.

As he went down, Hawkeye swung his leg out and hooked his foot around the back of the first guy's knees. His rotating motion just increased the force of his slam, and the guy buckled to the ground. As Hawkeye's torso came around in the spin, he gripped the guy's shoulders and heaved him up as a temporary shield. The guy screamed when the bullets hit him a second later.

From around the mercenary's shoulder, Hawkeye fired an arrow at the ceiling over their heads. The miniature charge detonated a second later, tearing down ceiling panels and dropping onto the shooters' heads. In a flash, he was moving as the distraction continued to fall- shooting four arrows at the first line of defense, then planting one hand on someone's shoulder and vaulting towards the low rafters, his bow sliding into place around his left shoulder. His toe caught the strap of someone's gun and he swung the heavy piece of machinery at someone else's head. There was a thick crunch as it collided with their skull.

Still gripping the rafters, he brought his legs up in a curl, using the side of the wall to maintain the momentum. His left hand let go and pulled the knife out from its sheath before he even finished the turn. Pushing off from the wall into an even tighter spin, he let go and whirled down in the middle of a cluster of bad guys. Hawkeye brought up his left arm and the knife cut their throats as he spun. The last one had just enough time to bring up his gun to block the blade, but Hawkeye was already following up with a right cross to his skull.

In the microsecond of a pause, he evaluated that he was now past the other gunmen. They were just beginning to notice that, too. With a twitch of his left arm the knife slid back in its sheath and his bow was in his hand. He fired an arrow as he backpedaled, successfully jamming the first shooter's gun as it lodged in the barrel.

He was back by the elevator. Yeah, no way. He ran right and barreled through the door to the stairwell, just as the firing squad opened up on his last position.

Hawkeye took the stairs two at a time. He just had to make it to the first floor. There! A window, right at the landing on the steps. Still running upwards, he braced his right foot on the turn in rail and propelled himself up into the air. As he rose, he fitted his bow and let the arrow fly _downwards_ against the window. The sharp metallic edge of the arrowhead sliced down against the glass before the arrow went all the through. When it ruptured the other side, the glass broke, shattering apart on either side.

In an industrial building keeping likely-illegal secrets, there was no way a mere human could just _jump_ through likely bullet-proof windows. Hence, the extra slicing of the arrow.

Hawkeye landed on the tiny shards but kept his feet. He ran outside as an alarm started wailing, pelting over a ridiculously tiny manicured lawn (it was probably fake). He leaned hard to the left, keeping towards the shadows, and rounded the building so that he was facing his own hotel across the street.

They wouldn't follow him out into the open like this. Not with guns blazing like that in the middle of New York City. He took a moment to catch his breath before folding up his bow and sliding it across his back. He removed his quiver and pressed a button on the side, extending its length. The arrows disappeared as they were drawn closer to the bottom. Two wheels flipped out underneath and he unfolded a thin handle. He slid his bow between the bars and clicked it perfectly in place, looking like a neat design on the bag.

After all, to bystanders it was just a normal golf caddy.

Weapons disguised, he strode out from the shadows into the brightly lit street, crossing it nonchalantly. Nobody gave him a second look. He pushed the "caddy" over to his hotel.

He rode the elevator up to his floor, and slumped against the side. His adrenaline was coming down, and it left him feeling quite tired. It'd have to wait a bit, though. He needed to get his things and move to a different location, so that they wouldn't track him.

The doors opened on his floor and he walked up to his room. He reached a hand out towards the doorknob.

The only warning he had were the hairs on the back of his neck rising before his door exploded outward.


	5. Part Four

**A/N: I hope I didn't keep y'all waiting too long. Between my crazy work schedule, flying, and taking care of my mom there hasn't been a lot of time to write. This chapter is a bit shorter than normal because I just couldn't get over how great that stopping place was. And yes, I have actually researched some of this :) But I will admit my information comes from Wikipedia, so I'm not sure how accurate my canon info may be. Oh, well. I'll let you decide. Not to detain you any longer: enjoy this next installment!**

* * *

This was annoying.

He had his eyes closed, but he could already tell that some kind of light was coming and going. It was like a slow strobe. Or a swinging lamp.

Whatever it was it was highly irritating.

He felt sore all over and whenever he was injured his mood soured to crap. A twitch of his wrists told him he was restrained. Oh, this was just perfect. Really? What was it this time, hanging from a ceiling? Strapped to a table? Tied to a chair?

He shifted minutely, orienting himself. _Hmm… must be the chair._

"We know you're awake."

A voice. Female. Familiar, too. Aw, damn…

"Hello, Wendy."

He opened his eyes in time to see her scowl. Her finely chiseled face jumped between caricatures as the overhead bulb swung, warping the shadows. Oh, this was definitely not helping his headache.

"I'll admit, I'm impressed," she said smoothly. "I didn't believe that the massacre in the hall was caused by one man- much less one who _survived_. I had to watch the security tapes before I was convinced."

"What tapes?" he slurred, squinting at the pain it caused. He really did feel like someone bowled him over with a brick wall. "There were no cameras."

"That's where you're wrong, Agent."

Barton immediately tensed, aware that things had just gone south. He flicked his eyes around the dim room, but didn't see anyone else besides Wendy. That voice had come from somewhere, though. If there was a speaker in the walls…

"That's right, agent. Hawkeye, agent for SHIELD, or at least, what was formerly known as SHIELD. Perhaps a more apt name would be the Avengers. We've known who you were since you first set foot in the Houser building."

The voice was male, but it ran tinny through the speaker, slightly warping it. "Where are your manners?" Barton replied. "Don't you know it's impolite to not look at the person when you're talking to them?"

Wendy snorted, and he saw her smirk in a flash of light. "I am looking at you," replied the voice. "Even without cameras. I have a much more complex imaging system than to bother with those inadequate machines."

Okay. That explained a lot, such as how they identified him. No wonder the Houser and CTE buildings didn't have cameras. So what was he using? X-rays? Fiber optics? Cybernetics?

"Good for you. Less property damage that way." He shifted, testing his bonds again. Across the room, Wendy tensed.

"Hey, you gonna leave your assistant alone in here with a highly trained assassin?" he called. "That's smooth, man. Real smooth."

"I assure you, Miss Conrad is not indefensible," the voice rang again. Wendy grinned slyly from her position.

"That blast that took you out? That was me, hon. And it would have killed you, too, if the blown door hadn't shielded you. Don't forget that," she purred sweetly.

He shrugged as well as he could in his bindings. "People have tried to kill me before." It didn't get better any time. And he didn't like these taunting games.

"You know what? I don't like talking to a disembodied voice. So either you show up in here in the next two minutes, or I come looking for you," he finished with a growl.

There sounded something like a chuckle over the intercom. "So direct. I like it." The pause was long enough that Barton was about to open his mouth again, but the door opened and a well-dressed man in a red suit and reflective glasses walked in.

Barton sighed. "William Cross. Honestly, I should've gotten that _way_ sooner."

"We won't hold it against you. You did just survive an explosion, after all."

Barton grimaced. _Yeah, don't remind me_. Nothing seemed broken, however. Not even his nose. He surmised that his head had turned some when the door hit him, explaining why half his face felt like a giant bruise. As for his back, mm, probably when he collided with the far wall. _Taken out by being squashed between a door and a wall- nice._

"What's this all about? You obviously know who I am. You obviously want to keep something a secret. You could have killed me when I was still unconscious, but you didn't."

"Rest assured, I am going to kill you," Cross said softly. "I just wanted you to be awake to see it."

Barton rolled his eyes. Not another one.

Cross watched him silently. "You don't know who I am?"

"I know you're William Cross, head of Cross Technological Enterprises," he responded. "You have a cousin named Darren, I seem to recall-"

A look of fury and disgust flitted across his face. "He's nothing. He's doing some idiotic work with fancy _shrink rays_ or something like that. Useless. My work is much more profitable."

"What, your no-camera-needed surveillance?"

A sly grin slowly spread on Cross's face. "I feel, agent, that you will become closely acquainted with my real work."

Not such a good sign, Barton decided. But he noticed something else. They never called him Clint Barton. Sure, they knew he worked for SHIELD and the Avengers, and they knew his codename, but it seemed his true identity was still secure. Thank God for small blessings.

Cross was still talking. "Miss Conrad, if you would wheel our guest to the testing chamber."

This was comical. Barton actually felt himself chuckling as Wendy kicked a latch on his chair and started pushing him on the unfolded wheels. They went out, down the hall (they passed the ruined one) and closer to a door that held screaming behind it. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Barton couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Maybe he'd been down this road one too many times. But seriously? Villainous gusto, 'testing chambers', ominous screams… it reeked of slapstick and he could hardly believe this was all real.

"You're having a psychotic break already? But we haven't even begun," Cross mentioned. Barton ignored him.

"You left him in there?" Wendy questioned, referring to the source of the screams.

Cross shrugged. "Bastard deserves it for kicking me out."

Kicked out? From where? Barton ran through the information in his head. The CIA?

The door opened and showed a writhing man strapped to a chair. Glimpsing the shoes, Barton realized it was the man with the click-clack boots from earlier. If this was how Cross treated his friends…

Cross flipped a switch on the outside wall and the man stopped screaming, but continued thrashing. The CEO sighed. "Still no luck, but we're in the earliest human trials. Practice makes perfect, wouldn't you agree, Hawkeye?"

"Some people practice all day long but never get the hang of it, whereas others just seem to have a knack," he replied nonchalantly.

Instead of offended, Cross seemed amused. "Perhaps. Some may just be more susceptible or resilient than others. Let's see how you do."

Wendy unclasped the other man and dumped him on the floor. He twitched once and stilled. Barton was wheeled into the room, and he noticed a peculiar apparatus fashioned to the ceiling.

"Do you like it?" Cross asked. "It will change the world. I call it the Undertaker."

"Original," Barton dead-panned. "What's it do?"

"We're working out all the kinks, but soon enough it will make the recipient do whatever I want them to do," he explained vaguely. "All you need to be concerned about is whether or not you'll survive it."

"Yeah, that sounds _really_ world-changing," he muttered sarcastically as Wendy pushed him under the machine.

Cross bristled. "It will give us everything!" he snapped. "I got results for the Company- better than anyone else! I was the top interrogator until my old man here decided my methods were 'too controversial' and removed me." He kicked at the corpse on the ground. "But this will change all that."

"Will it?" he retorted. He lifted his head in defiance. "You just killed your own dad."

Cross froze, and Barton immediately knew he'd just pressed a _very_ wrong button. "Do not," he said, his voice low and filled with a quiet rage. "Ever claim that _I_ killed my father. The colonel? Just a mentor. No. You will never say that to me again. Understand?"

"Bit of a sore spot?" Barton cajoled, trying to get more information. He could see why Natasha preferred to interrogate from the other side of the bindings- it was ridiculously effective.

Cross was inscrutable behind his glasses. "You still don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

The man pulled away. "I don't suppose Madison, '98 means anything to you?"

Barton racked his brain. Madison, Madison, Wisconsin? 1998…

"It does," he replied steadily.

"Do you know who the target was?"

Barton saw where this was going. He closed his eyes. _Aw, crap_. "It was David Alexander Cross- turncoat CIA."

"It was _my father!_ " he shouted. Cross whirled back and faced him, clenching his fists. "I was _there_. Do you ever think about the families involved, Hawkeye? Do you ever think about the kids? Or is it all just _collateral damage_ to you?" He cut Barton off before he could answer. "Maybe you don't remember me. Maybe I was never that important. You ruined my life. I was 18! I spent the next 17 years tracking you down, tracing that fatal arrowhead. I lived and breathed around you. I never stopped thinking about you. And yet here you are, at last! And you didn't know who I was."

"It's not my job to-"

"I know! Blame the victim! After all, you're not responsible; I wasn't your primary target." And here Cross finally removed his reflective lenses. Barton tightened his jaw against the sight as he leaned into his face. One eye was a hazel-brown filled with anger. And the other… wasn't.

Instead of an eye, a mechanical lens was grafted into place. A tiny red light emanated from the center. The concentric metal rings distended into the skull. It was a harsh cybernetic replacement for a missing organ.

"No," Cross hissed. "I was just unlucky enough to be caught in the Crossfire."


	6. Part Five

**A/N: Hey, guys. Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. There's been, ah, some not-so-good developments in the house lately and so some projects got put on hold as the shit storm commenced. There's only one more chapter (an epilogue) left to go which I will have up before Wednesday, I promise! (My main motivation for that is that I'll be out of the country for week after that). Sorry if this seems shorter than normal- it certainly didn't feel that way writing it. Please review!**

* * *

Barton stared up at the sprawling machine. It seemed way too over the top. And the _Undertaker?_ What kind of a name was that? And it was built and powered by an evil CEO on a quest for revenge against Barton because he'd killed his father, alongside his supermodel sidekick. Barton couldn't tell if they'd drugged him with something and he was on a serious trip, or if things really were that surreal.

 _Nope,_ he thought as the machine powered up. _This is real._

The villain-wannabes had stepped outside the room in a similar fashion to technicians running an X-ray. While Barton was grateful for the peace and quiet, he didn't know the extent of the Undertaker's range. Would it fill the entire room, or just this spot in the middle?

Either way, he wasn't sticking around to find out.

He was out of his bonds in a flash but before he could move to get out of the chair it felt like an anvil was suddenly dropped right on his brain. His breath left him in shock and the pressure immobilized him. He struggled, trying to figure out if this migraine was physical or mental. Either way it hurt like a…

His nose started bleeding. He bucked reflexively. Then, amazingly, a numbness settled around him. He could still feel the pressure, but it was muted. He blinked dazedly around the room, working on getting his eyes to focus.

The pressure suddenly ended and the machine whirred down. Barton felt raw, but sat up straighter when the door opened and freaking Crossfire and Bombshell returned.

"Agent Hawkeye," Cross directed. "How do you feel?"

Barton snorted and wiped the blood from his nose with his shoulder, careful to pretend like he was still secured to the chair. "Like a million bucks," he replied sarcastically.

"At least you're alive." Cross stalked towards him, eyeing him shrewdly. "Who are you loyal to?"

What? "You already know that answer," he muttered.

"Tell me."

He lifted his head and glared at Cross. "I'm loyal to SHIELD."

Cross blinked, for some reason not expecting that. Wendy cast him a nervous glance before looking back at Barton.

"This isn't right," Cross muttered. "I had it calibrated correctly…"

Barton realized he may have let something slip. He looked back up at the Undertaker. If this was a brainwashing machine, and he just gave away that it didn't work.

"Huh," he said to himself, inaudibly. "I guess there's a once-per-lifetime mind control limit." He never thought he'd actually thank Loki for something.

Cross snapped at Wendy to watch him as he stormed out, presumably to whatever technical room housed the rest of the machine. The door slammed behind him, leaving just Barton and Wendy alone. Barton grinned.

"What are you smiling at?" Wendy accused.

Barton shrugged. "You're pretty." No, that wasn't why he was smiling.

She snorted. "You're gonna have to do better than that, honey."

His grin widened. "Okay." He immediately ducked forward in a tight roll and his hands- which grasped the back of the chair- launched it at her as they came around. Wendy was fast, but it still clipped her right arm hard. Barton came out of the somersault/front flip on his feet and was already charging her. She recovered in time to block his first punch but his right fist was already meeting her gut, doubling her over with a rasping gasp. He was about to take her out with a roundhouse kick to the head when he noticed what she was grasping at by her belt.

Oh, shit.

His hand shot out and broke her wrist, causing her to drop the grenade. He pulled the pin and threw it at the door. It was a contained explosion, but effective. He started to move towards the opening, but fingernails dug into his arm.

A moment later, a violent shock surged up from the contact.

He shouted and Wendy smirked, the light glinting off her electric cuffs. The fingers on his left arm twitched, but otherwise it felt numb and useless. He dropped down on his right side, standing on his hand, and kicked the legs out from under Wendy in a sweeping motion that looked like a dangerous break-dance move. She collided heavily with the floor, and Barton vaulted back to his feet. In two large steps, he was out.

He ran down the same corridor, aware he had to find Cross and destroy the Undertaker. For a mind-controlling machine, it had to be way more advanced and bigger than it appeared in that room. And since it was attached to the ceiling? The rest of it must be upstairs.

He would have climbed straight into the vents except he still couldn't feel or move his left arm. There had to be some stairs around here somewhere…

Bingo.

He jumped into action at an explosion far too close behind him. Wendy appeared out of the smoke, cradling her right wrist but looking murderous.

He hauled ass.

It probably wouldn't be wise to engage a grenade-throwing, pissed-off, gorgeous woman, especially when one had no weapons and a paralyzed limb.

He rounded the corner just as another explosion sounded. Debris pelted the back of his legs. Due to the flying grenades, he was cut off the stairs. Wendy was closing in, so he dove into another room and slammed the door.

This was… fortuitous.

His bow was laid out on a table, still intact, and his arrows were taken out of his quiver. Balancing the quiver in the crook of his left arm, he dumped the arrows in and deftly slid it over his back. Barton quickly got behind the table, and hauled his left arm onto it, forcing the bow into his clenched fist. He didn't like shooting right-handed, but it was the only way. He notched an arrow and waited.

Seconds later, Wendy burst through the door. There wasn't enough time to blink before he let the arrow fly.

It hit her right in the center of her body mass.

She gasped and pitched backwards, landing hard on the floor. A grenade that she'd been about to use rolled out of her hand. Barton rose, still reflexively clenching his bow. He moved to the door and cautiously eyed Wendy.

With a twist she pulled out a pistol and shot him.

The force of it knocked him on his back and his breath left him. He stared up at the ceiling next to Wendy, struggling to breathe. His agonal gasps soon joined her ragged breathing.

She turned her head to face him, a strained smile stretching at the corners of her mouth. "So," she panted, one hand around the arrow in her gut. "This is how we go, huh?"

Barton groaned. "Ohh, that's gonna leave a mark."

She tried to laugh and her breath hitched, making her cough wetly. "I'll say," she agreed.

Grunting, Barton slowly sat up, wincing at the big bruise that was no doubt forming over his diaphragm. Wendy's eyes widened as he struggled to his feet.

"What?" he panted, straightening his uniform. "You think I wear this just for looks?"

She gasped and laughed, choking. "Clever," she admitted. "Very clever, agent." Her fingers twitched, but she had no more strength to use her gun.

"Thank you," he grunted. He winced as he reached back and procured another arrow. Then, bending down, he relieved her of her grenades. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course," she acknowledged. "I would expect nothing else."

Barton nodded curtly, and moved swiftly back towards the stairwell, leaving her to bleed.

* * *

The hall upstairs was silent. Barton listened closely, prepared to come across Cross at any junction. He also stay tuned for the sound of running machinery. He didn't like the lack of an edge he had; Cross's no-camera surveillance system could very likely be hooked straight to his cybernetic eyeball. The man could be watching him this very moment.

He saw the barrel of the gun and knocked it sideways an instant before it fired.

Cross snarled and blocked Barton's right hook. He punched him solidly in his left arm, which sent maddening tingles racing up and down across it. Barton gritted his teeth and kneed him in the bladder. Forced to his knees, Cross reached for the gun again but Barton slammed down on him with his back.

They struggled on the ground, and he caught a glimpse through the door Cross had appeared from where a large, technical machine pulsed. Rolling, he unclipped one of Wendy's grenades and threw it inside.

Cross shouted and then the machine blew up.

Barton rolled them away from the door and the blast. Cross kicked him in the chin and scrambled towards the gun. He reached a hand towards it and screamed as an arrow pinned it to the floor. Chest heaving, Barton strode up the pinned man and kicked the gun away.

Cross glared at him. "So what now, Hawkeye? You kill me just like you did my father? Might as well finish the job, murderer."

Barton sighed. Then he reached down and unclipped Cross's business cell. He punched in a long number, and eyed Cross as it rang.

"Hawkeye. I need a clean-up crew at Cross Technological Enterprises," he spoke curtly. He snapped the phone shut and pocketed it, still keeping Cross at bay with an arrow.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said impassively. "That'd be far too good for you. Instead, you're going to rot in prison, and I'll forget about you _again_."

Cross's face twisted into something murderous. "You're an assassin, not a police officer!" he shouted. "You're nothing but a killer, you know that? You killed my family and you were going to kill me!"

Barton looked at him, bored. "I don't need to kill you just to shut you up."

When what was left of SHIELD's cleanup crew arrived, they found an enraged man pinned to the floor by an arrow in his hand, and his own socks tied in a gag around his face.

* * *

 **Almost over! One more chapter to go! Reviews are loved!**


	7. Epilogue

**A/N: Here we are at the end, guys! Thanks for keeping up with the adventure all the way through; I hope I did our heroes justice. Thanks for the reviews, everybody (especially you, PSW!) In case I forgot to mention it before, I do not own The Avengers, Marvel, or anything else of that nature. This epilogue is short, but I felt it said all that needed to be said. Thanks, guys!**

* * *

"I'll admit, the paralyzed limb is new."

Clint winced as Laura examined his latest healing wounds. The medics from SHIELD had done their jobs, but Clint always preferred to recover at home. At this point, both he and Laura could probably pass convincingly as doctors. She prodded the ugly bruise in his midsection where his uniform had stopped the bullet. They'd seen that before, and fortunately his ribs were spared. Other than the normal cuts and bruises from getting banged up, all that remained was his left arm.

"They said it was only temporary," Clint convinced her. "And I actually have some feeling in it again- it's all tingly, all the time." He focused hard and managed to wiggle some fingers.

"Mm-hmm," Laura pursed her lips and gently doctored the bandages. "So I take it the dining room is going to wait a few more days?"

Clint grinned at her. "That's never stopped me before." It's true- he'd repaired a ceiling light with a broken leg, once.

She shook her head. "Cooper's actually finished clearing the space out, so all that's left is the remodeling."

He twisted to look elsewhere in the house. "That boy is turning out just like his old man."

She chuckled, finished wrapping the bandages, and smoothed her fingers through his hair. "We won't have to worry about them again?" she murmured.

Clint caught her eyes. "Cross is in a secure SHIELD prison," he assured her softly. "And if Conrad lives through surgery she's joining him there."

Laura pursed her lips and flicked her eyes away. "Maybe."

He caught on instantly. "Laura, what is it?"

She sighed. "Steve called while you were gone," she admitted. "He seemed… upset. All I know is there's been some talk about regulation laws or something."

Clint didn't outwardly react to the news. He took in a deep breath through his nose and nodded, thinking of the new recruits. "Well," he said. "We'll survive whatever comes."

Laura nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him. He reciprocated, rocking her gently.

 _You're nothing but a murderer! A killer, an assassin!_

"I've got you," Laura murmured, and Clint finally felt himself relax.

* * *

 **Designed to leave off for Ant-Man and Captain America: Civil War. Please let me know if you spot any loopholes- I want to make sure I've wrapped everything up. Thanks, again!**


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